APPLES

Hervé is at the top of the tree
That hums in the uproar of a wild wind,
For he’s shaking it as quickly as he’s able
So that, like a barrage of colossal hail
Ricocheting with the sound of billiard-balls
The mottled red apples fall.
And with the slope they roll
One after the other
In a dizzying dance
To the foot of the hedge
That they strike against … Dazed.